


If I Could Hide

by orphan_account



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>G was furious, and Knuckle struggled to understand. Was G angry because Knuckle had neglected to mention him? "G... I know I said I'd like to have a wife like the First and children as sweet as Asari. But the reason I didn't mention you is because I don't want someone like you. I want you. And if things were different... I'd want you for my sweetheart."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Could Hide

"Stop that."

Irately, G glared ahead at the bare wall, figurative waves of fury emanating from his slouched body. He briefly clenched his fists around the sides of his newspaper, concentrating on stifling his anger, before swiftly rolling the paper up into a firm tube. Without standing up or looking behind him, he stretched his arm over the back of the sofa, neatly cracking the newspaper against the crown of Knuckle's head.

Knuckle grimaced, the pain shivering through his scalp and finding its way into his skull. "There's no need to be brutal, G," he said weakly, reaching up to gingerly caress the top of his head. The skin beneath his tufts of dark hair was hot, and with an exasperated sigh, Knuckle dropped his hands to rest on the shelf the back of the sofa made.

"For pity's sake, Knuckle!" G spat. "Didn't I tell you to _stop_ that?"

"Before I can stop something, I must first figure out what it is I should stop," Knuckle gently said. "For some reason, I'm getting the feeling that you're a bit on edge. Care to tell me what's been going on?"

"And do you care to tell me why you're so _obnoxious_?" Groaning gustily, G shifted on the sofa, slumping in an exaggerated manner. Impatiently, he fumbled in the breast pocket of his loose blouse. He extracted a mangled cigar and peeled away the loose shreds of paper to slip the tip of the cigar into his mouth. He chewed on it lightly, rolling it between his teeth.

"That's a bad habit," Knuckle reminded, quite possibly for the hundredth time.

"What do you know?" Merely to annoy Knuckle, G began chewing with more fervor. He pinched the end of the oily cigar between his thumb and forefinger, parting his lips to bite lightly into it. He grazed his teeth along the tip, pressing his tongue against the smoky-tasting blunt end and closing his eyes as if relishing the peppery flavor.

Knuckle shook his head in remorseful disgust. "Please don't do that in my presence, G. You know you worry me."

Silently, G slipped his fingers back into his pocket, retrieving the hard cap that had previously been on the cigar. He twisted around enough to face Knuckle, and with expert aim, flicked the cap toward him. It popped against the side of Knuckle's chin, bouncing away to be forgotten on the floor.

His chin stinging from the blow, Knuckle drew back, a spark of wounded indignation crackling through his eyes. A surge of anger welled inside him, and he struggled to keep calm. Sweat prickled his palms, and he swallowed back the tightness in his throat as he lowered himself to sit on the back of the couch.

 _Don't hit him. Don't hit him, it'll only make him more upset._ Knuckle inhaled sharply, his hands burning. Every muscle twitched, ready to pull Knuckle into a familiar boxing stance.

"Please, G, tell me," he pleaded, determined to ignore the urge that begged him to knock the redhead from his chair. "What's made you so angry? You've even been rude even to the First, lately. That's unlike you."

"Oh, so being rude is 'unlike' me?" G drawled. He arched his back to gain access to his rear pocket, removing a broken match and a scrap of rough paper. He scraped the match's rounded tip along the edge of the paper, and a tiny flame sputtered to life. Idly, he cupped his palm around the end of his cigar, sucking on it as he held the match to its butt. It caught the small arrow of fire, instantly growing hot. G rolled the flavor of smoke over his tongue as he flipped his wrist, the fast motion turning the head of the match black and sooty.

"It's very unlike you to be rude to the _First_ ," Knuckle corrected, speaking at last. "You're always rude to people like me. Never _cruel,_ exactly, but definitely rude. That's why I want to know what's going on with you. You're angry, and there's no use in trying to convince me otherwise."

G rested his head on the armrest of the chair, his hair spiked across the cushion and his eyes fixated on the ceiling. He shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, breathing wisps of smoke from between his lips. Finally, he glanced at Knuckle, frowning.

"You're right, Knuckle," he said reluctantly, a sigh dragging out his words. "I'm mad. And I shouldn't be taking it out on the Boss. But you should know why I'm mad––it is your fault, after all."

"My fault?" Knuckle repeated, startled.

"Sure," G said, lifting his shoulders in a pretense of a nonchalant shrug. "I guess someone like you wouldn't remember, though. Or bother to apologize. Idiots, the lot of you."

"I won't have any of that," Knuckle snapped. "Don't you dare call me an idiot, nor any of the rest of the Family. Instead of spewing insults, why don't you just tell me what I've done to make you so upset?"

G delicately plucked his cigar from his mouth, his eyebrow quirking at Knuckle's comment.

"I knew it," he said coldly, his eyes dark and calculating. "You don't remember––either that, or you're just denying it."

"Denying _what_?" Knuckle asked, exasperated.

"What you said a couple of days ago."

Knuckle clenched his fists in his lap, refusing to growl at G. He had learned from experience that the most effective way to extract information from G was to be gentle with him. He spread his hands over his knees, concentrating on calming himself.

"G... I can honestly say, before God, even, that I have no idea of what you're talking about."

G glared at him in disgust before tipping his head to the side. Taking a long drag on his cigar, he used his tongue to maneuver it to the corner of his mouth before speaking.

"I suppose," he said, his words slurring past the end of the cigar, "you're just too much of a blamed goody-goody to admit to anything."

"G, for the last time, _what?_ "

G pouted, closing his eyes, red eyebrows lowering. "You know what you said. About having a family."

Still obviously confused, Knuckle glanced down at G, watching the pink flame tattoo crease over his smooth cheek when he scowled.

"Um... yes," Knuckle said carefully, still not understanding. "The Family. The Family?"

"No!" G whipped around, frustrated, his hair swirling against his jaw in the breeze. "You told the First, right in front of me, that you'd want to marry a girl who's just like––like him. You said you wanted a girl who's sweet and brave and loving and strong and beautiful." The longer he spoke, the more his voice twisted into an ugly parody of Knuckle's. "Knuckle, you make me so sick. Wanting a wife like the First and children like Asari. You make me so, so _sick._ "

Knuckle flinched when G's voice broke and cracked unpleasantly. "I don't see what's so horrible about that."

G rolled over, tucking his knees to his chest and slipping his arms beneath his neck to support his head. His fringe fell over his jaw and brow to obscure the sight of his ruby eyes. He looked like an ill child, his expression one of lost emptiness. Soft wisps of smoke floated upwards from his cigar.

Knuckle stared down at G, wishing he could decipher that terrible code of his personality. He raised his hand, unfurled his fingers, and stopped. He realized he wanted to gently push aside those tangled pink bangs and gaze beseechingly into G's lonely eyes, but he knew G would hate him if he did.

"G, please don't be angry," Knuckle said. "Just explain what's hurting you. I'm a fool, you know. You tell me all the time. I can't help if I don't get it."

"Why should I waste my time?" G muttered against the chair cushion. His cheeks glowed a shade of scarlet that Knuckle knew meant he was furious. "Just go away. I can't stand you."

Knuckle swiftly leaned down, abandoning caution as he dropped his hand against G's shoulder. G's lack of reaction astonished him, and he briefly squeezed his fingers around the bend of G's neck. G drew up his shoulders in a stubborn shrug, scowling.

A single stray thought fluttered into Knuckle's mind. "G..." He stared down at G, his eyes tracing the curve of his side and the slope of his hip and the angles of his folded legs. "G, are you angry because I didn't mention you?"

"No. Of course not. What do I care?"

Knuckle set his jaw with determination. G's denial only convinced him further. "That's exactly your problem, isn't it? G, there's a reason I didn't say I want a wife or children like you."

G colored and adamantly pressed his cheek against the arm of the chair, clearly signifying he did not want to hear an explanation.

"Don't you want to listen?" asked Knuckle.

"No."

"Then I'll tell you anyway," he said softly. "G, the reason I didn't mention you––the reason I don't want someone like you to be my family is that... I don't want someone _like_ you. If things were different, I would want _you._ You. You yourself, not just any other person like you."

He halted for a moment, and wistfully added, "If I weren't _me_ , I would want you for my sweetheart."

Silence filled the air, even thicker than the smoke that clogged it. Knuckle swallowed, and his throat burned. He blamed it on the cigar fumes. Why had he confessed his harbored thoughts to G? Being so rude and rowdy, G surely would not understand. He would mistake Knuckle's words as meaning something else. He was not thoughtful enough to discover the depth to Knuckle's explanation.

Knuckle leaned closer to his friend, fully intending to grab his shoulder and apologize. Before he could, G's hand shot up, and even without looking, G managed to cup his palm over Knuckle's warm forehead. He pushed Knuckle back, away from him.

"Go away," he said, and his voice sounded oddly quiet. "Get out of here, you stupid idiot."

Hurting, a fluttery ache in his chest, Knuckle obeyed, rising from his perch on the back of the chair. He stepped backward, his weight making the floor creak beneath him. He suddenly felt exceedingly flustered, and turned to leave.

As he departed, his last gruff words floated behind him. "I'm sorry, G. Forgive me."

G waited many long, suffocating minutes, ensuring Knuckle really had left. When at last he looked up, his eyes were pale pools of red. He angrily smoothed his fingertip along the rim of his eyelid, wiping away the first trace of moisture. Feeling more furious and confused than he had in ages, he wrapped his arms around the cushion and pulled it beneath his chin.

_If things were different..._

_If things were different, he would want me for his sweet... his s––sweetheart._ G could scarcely bear to think that horrible term. _If things were different... if he were a girl? If I were? If he knew he could hide from God long enough to––_

Suddenly, G could not bring himself to finish the thought. He pressed his face against the pillow, and promised to allow himself just one stifled, choked, painful, undignified whimper.

He broke his promise.


End file.
